By Deborah P.

I couldn't have what I wanted when we were rich. Life was better when we were poor.

My father was the owner and operator of a small trucking business. When the funds in his bank account were low, he didn't drink. During those times, he immersed himself in his work and there was a semblance of sanity in our home.

When he felt rich knowing he could rely on the money he had accrued, he stopped working long hours, started drinking heavily and turned his wrath on us. During those affluent times my mother, two older brothers and I fought to survive. We sometimes slept in closets hoping he wouldn't find us. Other times we spent the night at the homes of friends and relatives to escape his beatings. After several such visits, we were too embarrassed to go back to the same homes so we drove Mom's car into a wooded area and slept there.

Dinner time was also a nightmare when Dad was rich and drinking. Seated at the head of the table, he directed subtle, clever put-downs at Mom. She'd ignore him until his remarks lost their subtlety and he used names like "slut" and "whore." Then she'd say, "Cecil, please don't talk that way in front of the children." Her pleas seemed to infuriate him. They made him yell louder and talk dirtier.

I hated the food on my plate. I wasn't allowed to leave the table until it was all gone, so I experimented with different ways to get rid of it. Occasionally, our dog dared to crawl under the table and I slipped most of it to him, but he usually stayed away. I tried taking big mouthfuls and gulping it down. That made me gag. Once I threw up and Dad slapped me until I fell on the floor. So I usually moved the food around on my plate until Dad followed Mom into another room. Then I threw it in the garbage pail. I'm sure Mom saw it when she did the dishes, but she never said anything. She just made sure I got my shot for anemia every week.

Workdays and school days were usually better for me. Weekends, holidays and prosperous times were predictably horrible. The best that could happen was no one would get hurt. Mom wouldn't get a black eye or a broken bone and we wouldn't get whipped with Dad's 32 inch leather belt. When we weren't rich, Dad left in his truck on Sunday night and he was gone most of the week.

When Dad had money, he didn't spend it on us. He would buy a round of drinks for everyone at a bar, but he complained when Mom bought one of us a much needed pair of shoes. He gave her less money than she needed to feed a family of five which meant we had meat only on the nights when he was home. When he was gone, we ate pancakes or scrambled eggs. I wanted the menu to be reversed. Pancakes and eggs are easy to swallow.

One winter, Dad refused to buy coal after Mom started a fire in our faulty furnace and the house filled up with smoke and coal gas. It sent us all choking and gaging out onto the front yard. Dad called her a "stupid bitch," got in his car and drove to the Legion where he had an unlimited supply of beer as long as he had money. He spent the winter there. He probably liked it better than living in an unheated house in upstate New York. We were happier too. Putting up with a cold house was easier than putting up with him. And sleeping in a cold bed was more comfortable than sleeping in the car.

Mom worried about the pipes freezing. I think that's what made her get a job as a Red Cross worker. She liked her work and it showed. She lost weight, dyed her hair, bought herself a few new clothes and told us interesting stories about the people she met through her work on the nights when Dad was gone.

For a while, she had fewer asthma attacks, but after she got the furnace fixed and Dad moved back home, the asthma came back.

Every time she heard his truck coming down our street, she started wheezing. She usually caught her breath after taking a few drags off her inhaler, but sometimes we had to call Aunt Gladys so she could take Mom to the hospital. They gave her oxygen.

Time and again we managed to outlive Dad's bank account. When his money was almost gone, he went on the wagon. We still weren't anything like a TV sitcom family, but we felt and looked better. Instead of drinking, Dad painted the house, wallpapered rooms, landscaped the yard and kept everything, even the furnace, in excellent shape.

On the nights when he was home and not drinking, he ate without saying much, then sat in the den by himself reading western novels. After he finished a book, he put it on top of the stack on the right side of his chair and reached for another one from the pile on his left.

The pattern of Dad getting rich and then drunk and mean followed by months of him being quiet and ambitious repeated itself for at least fifteen years. Then he started making himself feel richer by selling off trucks and pieces of property he'd bought when he was younger. Thus our "wealthy" tumultuous times lasted longer and the "poor" more tranquil moments almost disappeared.

At eighteen, I left home. I traveled by bus from my small, rural hometown to New York City in search of an airline job. They sounded glamorous. If I stayed where I was, I was afraid I'd end up working in the canning factory. I didn't have any money to use for college. I could have taken out a loan, but I was sick of being poor. I wanted a real job; one that paid me enough to afford new clothes and a heated apartment.

The best part of leaving was getting away from Dad. With any luck, I'd never have to see him again. Mom died a few years earlier while having an asthma attack. And my brothers had joined the marines to get away from home. If I ever went back to that dinky little town it would be to see my friends.

I got a job as a reservationist with Eastern Air Lines. They paid us to go through their training and promised to give us free flight passes to anywhere Eastern flew after we'd been with them for six months.

While going through training, I met Sharon. We decided to share an apartment. She told me a lot about her family. I didn't tell her much about mine. Her father was a carpenter. He did the dishes and the ironing. I figured he was a sissy until I met him. Their home was close to New York City. Whenever we were broke or sick of the City, we hopped a train for Philadelphia. Her parents always seemed glad to see us.

One day in January of 1963, we didn't even have enough money for the train so we could mooch off her parents. We each had just one dollar and no checkbooks or credit cards. At that time there was a book on the best seller list that told hippies how to travel through Europe on a dollar a day, but we didn't know how to survive in the Big Apple for so little. So we went to Puerto Rico. We spent fifteen cents each for the subway and fifteen cents each for a connecting bus which took us to Kennedy Airport. There we boarded the 9 AM breakfast flight to San Juan.

At the San Juan airport, I dug deep in my purse for a quarter to buy a locker to store our dresses, slips, pantyhose, underwear and high heels. We put on tennis shoes and bathing suits, covered the suits with shorts and t-shirts and began a two mile walk to the Holiday inn. Many of the natives offered us rides, but we remembered our mothers' words and kept on walking until we reached the Holiday Inn pool. While swimming and working on our tans, an Eastern employee invited us to go water skiing with him. Around five o'clock, he drove us back to the airport.

We changed back into our street clothes and boarded the 6 PM dinner flight bound for New York. Upon arrival, we spent another thirty cents each for a bus and subway ride back to our apartment in Manhattan. We had proved that we could live like we were rich when we were poor.

"How to do New York City on a Dollar a Day" was my favorite story until I told it to Norman about six months after we started dating. He convinced me that I should be embarrassed to have done such a foolhearted thing. He never said why. I never asked him why. Norman didn't have to explain anything to me. I wanted his approval so I behaved whatever way I thought he wanted me to. Trying to outguess Norman was confusing, but I didn't stop trying.

After we got married, Norman managed the money. We both assumed that he knew more about managing money than I did even though I had saved over six thousand dollars and Norman was broke. He gave me a checkbook and a gas credit card. If I used a check for anything besides groceries, Norman seemed upset and I tried not to do it again. I couldn't buy myself anything without feeling guilty.

When we were together, Norman talked and I listened. There wasn't much sense in my talking because he didn't seem interested in anything I had to say unless it was something real important about our kids. Mostly he talked about how much he hated his job and how expensive everything was. It made me feel guilty. To make it a little better, I stayed home with Norman so we wouldn't have to spend any of his money on having a good time.

Hiding my colitis from Norman was easier than hiding my wheezing. He complained that my wheezing kept him awake so I slept on the couch. I couldn't understand why I was getting asthma. I guessed it was hereditary.

After fifteen years of marriage, things started to change. Norman started making a six figure yearly salary and I went to a support group for families and friends of alcoholics. The big checks didn't change the way Norman handled money, but the support group changed me. It helped me feel worthy of more than I was getting from our relationship. It also made me stop seeking Norman's approval. Gradually, the carefree, fun loving personality who left for Puerto Rico with only a dollar in her pocket returned.

Today, I'm not married and I'm not rich, but I live rich. I have a warm, safe home and a comfortable bed. I never sleep in a closet, on a couch, in my car or at a friend's house unless I want to. No one hits, insults or embarrasses me in my home. If anyone tried, he'd be asked to leave immediately.

I don't worry about money. I don't feel guilty when I spend it frivolously on clothes, movies, gifts or trips. I always have enough to pay my mortgage, buy food and pay the electric bill. If I'm a little short one month, I use a credit card and pay it off the next.

All my psychosomatic illnesses are gone. Food tastes good. Too good.

Now the weekend and holidays I dreaded as a child and when I was listening to Norman complain are special. I spend them with interesting people who look for solutions to their problems. They don't hate their jobs, the state of the economy and constantly find something to complain about. When I talk, they listen. I enjoy having friends who are interesting and interested. They are some of my richest blessings.